


Jumped the Freight Train Rolling

by pantsoffdanceoff



Category: Letterkenny (TV)
Genre: Hand Jobs, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-13
Updated: 2017-02-13
Packaged: 2018-09-22 20:05:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9623396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pantsoffdanceoff/pseuds/pantsoffdanceoff
Summary: “I heard from a little yellow birdie,” said Devon, “That your horn’s like a golf ball in a sock. A police’s flashlight from the ‘80s hanging there. A twelve-ounce cut of--”Stewart’s lip smashed against his own, effectively cutting off both his train of thought and his air.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Razo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Razo/gifts).



Devon ran down the stairs, boarded the windows, and just managed to turn off the lights when something smashed into a window. There was the grinding sound of spiderwebbed glass crying for mercy, and then another kick.

A shoulder bumped into his in the dark.

“Fuck, I thought we lost them by the dollar store,” hissed Stewart.

“Apparently not,” whispered Devon. The board didn’t fit perfectly over the basement windows, and the midday light blinked like the world’s slowest strobe light as unseen figures paced outside. “How many do you think are out there?”

“Four? Five?” said Stewart. His silhouetted hands grabbed his equally dark hair. “Whose bright fucking idea was it to deal China girl, anyway?”

“I thought there were six of them,” said Devon.

“Rolfe took one down by the clinic,” said Stewart, “Shot him right in the ass with a fistful of EpiPens.”

“Yeah?” said Devon. He felt like he’d been stuck with a dozen doses of epinephrine himself, ready to jitter out of his own skin. “You think it was enough to take him down?”

The basement window exploded in a spray of glass, knocking the board aside. For a brief, terrifying second, Devon could see four pairs of tree-trunk legs, in various shades of distressed denim, and the craggy mug of the lead goon, glaring right into his eyes.

“Help me move this fucking couch!” yelled Stewart, jerking Devon out of his petrified state. He grabbed the other end of the ratty, acid-stained couch and with the strength of the desperate, heaved it on its end, wedging it against the drafty window, shoulder to shoulder with Stewart.

“The fucking rats are in the basement,” came a muffled voice outside, to the beat of Devon’s thundering heart, “Kick in the front door, boys!”

“Faludi's fucking terror dream,” whimpered Stewart, staring at the basement door. “Is it locked?”

Devon took a step forward at the same time another kick nearly toppled the couch, Devon and Stewart along with it. He yelped and shoved back, leaning with all his weight against the couch. They were stuck. Devon wracked his brains for ideas, as the occasional goon grunted and slammed against the front door, until he realized there was a problem poking him in the back of the thigh.

“Dude, seriously?” said Devon, glancing down at where his leg was jammed between Stewart’s.

“That’s just the adrenaline,” said Stewart, a little too quickly. The light was just enough for Devon to catch the pink flash of his tongue across his lips. “It’s a perfectly normal reaction.”

The pounding upstairs stopped, replaced by the muttering of the goons among themselves in Stewart’s yard. Devon licked his own lips, then decided if he was in for an ounce of apache...

“I heard from a little yellow birdie,” he whispered, “That your horn’s like a golf ball in a sock.”

Stewart groaned. “Did the little yellow birdie’s name rhyme with Schmolfe?”

“Or like a liter thermos?” said Devon, giggling a little. He felt light-headed. “A police’s flashlight from the ‘80s hanging there? A twelve-ounce cut of--”

Stewart’s lip smashed against his own, effectively cutting off both his train of thought and his supply of air. He tried to gasp, but nearly inhaled Stewart’s tongue instead, wet and eager, claiming his own. Devon groaned and tangled his hands in Stewart’s hair, trying to drag him closer, despite the fact that they were already pressed from face to hip, Stewart’s increasingly impressive hard-on pressing against his own, sending sparks of pleasure up his spine.

And then Stewart snaked a hand into his pants.

Devon’s knees nearly buckled, a strangled noise kissed out of his mouth by Stewart. He managed to untangle his hands from Stewart’s hair and shove them into Stewart’s pants, where he could--

“Holy mother of Murakami,” blurted Devon.

“Shut u--are you still reading that magical realism shit?” said Stewart.

“No, seriously,” said Devon, mapping out the terrain with his hand-- _both_ hands. “It’s--it’s like six pool balls in a tube sock.”

Stewart’s growl dropped an octave. “De. Von.”

“A deflated football, rolled in a tube,” said Devon.

“Answer me! I said--”

Someone kicked the wall right above them outside and Stewart’s horn gave a startled leap. Devon could no longer tell if it was his clammy palms slicking the way or Stewart’s precum. He whispered, “You like it when someone’s watching?”

Stewart’s eyes widened. “You're a spineless fucking liar.”

Devon gave a slow stroke, and watched with satisfaction as Stewart’s lips parted. “You sure? Dr. Johnston disagrees.”

“Doctor?” said Stewart.

“Sure,” said Devon, speeding up his hand, “This isn’t your Ph.D. I’m holding?”

Stewart huffed out a surprised laugh, but just as he was about to say something, a yell went up outside. They both froze. The disagreement outside was getting louder by the minute, closer too, if his ear wasn't fooling him. Stewart’s hand tentatively returned to wrap around Devon’s horn, stroking lightly.

“That all you got?” whispered Devon against Stewart’s mouth, as loudly as he dared. Stewart bit down on Devon’s lower lip in response, his hand tightening just right, enough to--

From there on, it was a race who could draw the loudest noise, wring the most shudders out of the other person. Devon had figured out a rhythm, twisting one hand up the shaft while the other rubbed in tight circles around Stewart’s steadily-leaking head, so close, so close to--

The basement door swung open, slamming Devon’s eyeball with blinding light. He yelped as he came, more come than he knew was possible soaking his shirt as his knees nearly gave out under him.

“Now that is just impolite,” came a voice. Between the sparklers of light still dancing across Devon’s vision, he could see Wayne looking anywhere but at him, hands crossed across his chest.

“Excuse you," said Stewart, gratifyingly breathless, "I can do what I want in the privacy of my own house.” He had his nose in the air, but it was hard to look unruffled tucking one’s trouser sna--Devon’s mouth watered at the peek of pink disappearing into Stewart’s pants. He just had that in his hands.

“Yeah, well, good for you,” said Wayne to the ceiling, “Anyways, they’re gone, just so's you know.”

The backyard had been quiet for a while now, Devon was just realizing.

“They are?” said Stewart, sounding just as surprised.

“Yeah, they agreed to keep out of Letterkenny,” said Wayne, “On one condition.”

“No,” said Stewart, just as Devon said, “Sure.”

Stewart glared. “No," he repeated, "You know exactly what the condition is. We spent all our dough buying a case of fentanyl from China. We have zero cash and no way of making any more if we don't sell this shipment.”

“How much Duragesic you degens buy anyway?” said Wayne.

“There was free shipping if we bought enough,” said Stewart, haughtily, “And a volume discount.”

“Oh, well if there was a volume discount,” said Wayne, dry as August.

“So,” said Devon into the silence, cautiously hopefully, "We can keep it?"

Stewart and Wayne both stared at him. The house creaked as it settled a little around them. Wayne said, stiffly, “No.”

In the end, they dragged Rolfe’s uncle’s Weber grill out to a parking lot on the edge of town, Wayne supervising with a lawn chair and a beer, the box of endless white baggies nudging at Devon’s foot. Across the haze of income literally going up in smoke, Stewart offered him a small smile. Devon’s breath caught, like he'd been dealt an Epipen to the chest.

He smiled back.

**Author's Note:**

> The title's from [Who Needs A Girl Like You](https://indianwars.bandcamp.com/track/who-needs-a-girl-like-you) by Indian Wars.
> 
> Stewart's opinions on Murakami are not my own.


End file.
